A Gentleman's Game (13 page)

“Go to the Americans, they have sources. They can find el-Sayd’s plans, when the fuckbagger will be traveling.”

“And they’ll know why we’re asking the minute we ask, and they’ll never give it up,” Landau replied.

“Muhriz el-Sayd needs killing.”

“No one knows that better than I do, Viktor.”

Borovsky scowled, then seemed to remember his hand was still on Landau’s shoulder and let it drop away. “Maybe there’s a trade?”

“We have nothing the Americans want.”

“But the British, they’re looking for Faud,” Borovsky said. “They hold Faud responsible for the murders on the Underground, Noah. They’ve been asking the Friends for any news of Faud. And Faud and el-Sayd will be together in San’a’.”

Landau thought about it and the first look didn’t reveal any flaws, and so he looked again and still saw none.

“Yes, they will,” he agreed finally.

“They can help.”

Landau nodded slowly. “Yes, I think maybe they can.”

Borovsky’s smile returned, bigger than ever. “Then there is no problem. We kill Faud for the British, or they kill el-Sayd for us, everyone will be happy.”

“Everyone except Faud and el-Sayd,” Landau said.

“Terrorists.” Borovsky spat on the floor. “Let them drown in their own fucking blood.”

13

London—Soho
30 August 0129 GMT

It was in the dizzying race
of thoughts that always seemed to come to her in those seconds building to climax that Chace admitted to herself that old habits really did die hard, and none of hers were willing to go into the grave just yet. It made her laugh aloud, and beneath, inside her, the young man named Jeremy stopped moving, his hands slipping from her hips and his face flooding with concern. Chace bit her tongue to keep from laughing again, bowed her head to his ear.

“No, don’t stop, Jeremy,” she whispered. “You’re doing fine.”

She ran her tongue along the side of his neck to prove her sincerity, tasted his sweat. He moaned, and she rocked her hips to encourage him further, and that did it, his hands returning to her, roaming once more. He opened his mouth and told her that he thought she was so beautiful, that he thought she was so sexy, and Chace didn’t care what he thought, and it made her irrationally and passionately angry. To silence him, she kissed him, hard, then bit his lip, pulling on it with her teeth, taking him harder, trying to steal both his breath and her own.

She’d found him at the White Horse pub, Soho, off her normally beaten path, but she’d decided to try it for a quick drink and to check out the scene after work. There had been Jeremy, in a gaggle of his friends, all of twenty-five, skin like coal and claiming to be an editor. He’d been charming, reasonably witty, looked healthy, and been easy on the eyes. It had taken less than two minutes before Chace knew she could have him if she wanted.

Whether it had been her intent upon entering not to leave alone, she still wasn’t certain. But when eleven o’clock had rolled around, pleasantly lit on Chimay White, she’d slipped one arm around Jeremy’s waist and let the fingers of her free hand touch his throat, then whispered in his ear, “I hope you live alone.”

“Or else?” Jeremy had stammered.

“We’ll have to rent a room.”

He had lived alone and, even better, nearby.

•

She was hungry and aggressive and demanding, trying to drive away her thoughts of Wallace, of what had almost happened between them. Jeremy did his best to keep up, but when Chace’s pager went off at three minutes before two and she showed no signs of answering it, he took it as an excuse and withdrew from her, then collapsed beside her on the bed.

“Maybe you should get that?” he asked.

Chace slumped into the pillows, feeling her heartbeat rattling in her breast. The pager went off again, and with its trilling, the night revealed itself to her for what it was, and she felt heat rushing into her face. She pushed herself up quickly, twisting to the side of the bed, catching Jeremy in the corner of her eye, stripping off his condom. The pager was still affixed to her belt, and her belt still affixed to her jeans, and she gouged at it with her thumb until it was silent, then read the message, certain she knew what it would demand of her, that it would be the DOO calling her to the Ops Room.

But it wasn’t, and the message she read was both surprising and troubling.

She began pulling on her clothes, dressing with a practiced speed that came from being naked in front of a stranger too many times before. Jeremy, lying on the bed and above the mussed covers, didn’t move, watching, perspiration shining on his skin in the weak light that dripped in from the street.

When her belt was fastened and she was pulling on her shoes, Chace said, “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“Nah, it’s no trouble.”

“I had a lovely night,” she lied.

“Me, too.” He pushed himself up on an elbow, smiled. “I’d love to do it again sometime.”

She had her jacket on by then and was halfway to the door.

“No,” Chace said.

•

She waited until she hit Regent Street before digging out her mobile to make the call, and Crocker answered on the first ring.

“Why the hell aren’t you at home?” he demanded.

“You said I couldn’t leave London, you didn’t say I—”

“I bloody know what I bloody said. Where are you now?”

“Regent Street.”

“Where none of the tube lines are up and running as yet.” She heard the whistle of his breath as he exhaled cigarette smoke. “Come in. Now.”

“Am I bound for parts unknown?”

“Now,” Crocker repeated, and hung up.

•

The first thing that surprised her when she reached Crocker’s office was that someone had made coffee, and since Kate was presumably at home and asleep, Chace was forced to conclude that it had been Crocker himself. Unless he’d forced someone on the janitorial staff to do it, which wasn’t out of the question but somehow seemed even more implausible.

The second thing was that Crocker wasn’t alone, and as Chace entered the inner office, she immediately regretted stopping to fix herself a cup of her own.

The man seated opposite Crocker rose immediately when she entered. She read him as hovering near forty, tanned skin that, beneath Crocker’s fluorescents, made him look almost a dusky orange. His hair was brown, cut close, the narrow shape of his face broken by a pair of broad black-framed eyeglasses of the kind favored by rocket scientists and fashionably nerdy software engineers everywhere. His suit looked both uncomfortable and inappropriate, better for fall or winter than the dying days of summer, and hung loosely on his frame. Perhaps five foot seven, maybe five eight, and when he rose, his arms dangled at his sides, loose, as if he was unsure of what to do with them.

Crocker indicated Chace and told the man, “Tara Chace.”

“So I see,” the man said, and the accent gave him away as Israeli.

“Noah Landau,” Crocker explained to her. “Mr. Landau runs the Metsada Division of the Mossad.”

“You would call it like your Special Operations Division,” Landau offered.

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.”

Landau barely nodded, looking her over, taking his time to do it. Chace resisted the urge to brush at her hair and hoped to God she had managed to get her clothes on right way round. His eyes were brown, Chace noted, and seemed smaller behind his thick lenses.

He maintained the survey for several seconds before returning to his seat and facing Crocker once more.

“Sorry to get you out of bed,” Crocker told her. “But I thought you should hear this, as you may end up going as backup on the operation.”

“Her?” Landau asked.

“She’s Head of Section, Mr. Landau. She’s the best I have for this kind of job.”

“I would not presume to dispute that. But we are talking about Yemen, and a European woman in Yemen will attract notice.”

“She won’t be running deep. In and out, provided we can fix the dates of travel.”

“Deep or not, she will need an adequate cover. I don’t want your support for my agents to be taken into custody before the operation is completed. And an English woman traveling in Yemen alone? I think it would raise suspicion. You speak Arabic?”

The last had been directed to her, so Chace answered, saying, “Words and phrases, sir. No fluency.”

Landau looked back to Crocker, shrugged.

“Tell him what you are fluent in, Tara.”

“I can pass as native in French and Italian. My French is best, but the Italian is a very close second. My German and Spanish are both fluent, not native, and my Russian is passable.”

“So you see we have some room to work,” Crocker said.

“So I do.” Landau considered, then glanced to Chace, as if begrudging her a reevaluation. “She should sit.”

“Tara.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Landau waited until she’d taken the seat beside him, then said, “We know that Dr. Faud bin Abdullah al-Shimmari will be visiting Yemen sometime during the month of September, Miss Chace. We know that he will be in San’a’, to meet with a man named Muhriz el-Sayd. Do you know this name?”

“El-Sayd’s the tactical operations man for the Egyptian Islamic Jihad. Trained under Ayman Al-Zawahiri, and like Al-Zawahiri was educated as a psychiatrist, I believe. Responsible for the murder of seven German tourists in Luxor in ’96, the bombing of the Beit-Shalom school in Elat in ’98, and the attempted bombing of the U.S. embassy in Albania in 2000. EIJ merged with al-Qaeda in late 2001, if I remember correctly.”

Landau cleared his throat. “We also have evidence tying him to a car bombing in Tel Aviv in May of 1997.”

“I was not aware of that, sir.”

“Not many are, Miss Chace.” Landau removed his glasses, held them up to the fluorescent lights above, examining them. “We understand that you are seeking Faud. We have been seeking el-Sayd. Both men are untouchable in their native countries, and for this reason, both men avoid travel if at all possible.”

He brought the glasses to his mouth, blowing on each lens, then using the corner of his jacket to wipe them clean.

“Both men are now exposing themselves by journeying to Yemen for a meeting,” he continued. “While we do not wish to assume the purpose behind your recent inquiries into Faud’s whereabouts, I have no such qualms sharing with you ours with regard to el-Sayd.”

“They want him dead,” Crocker told Chace.

Chace nodded, mostly because she couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

“Faud is responsible for the attacks on the Underground,” Crocker told Landau.

“Yes. So, you see, we have a common purpose, if not a shared target.”

“Do you have the dates of travel?” Chace asked.

Landau shook his head. “No. Nor is it likely that we will be able to gather that information by ourselves. But you have paths not open to us. People who would ignore our inquiries will answer yours. And we do have other information that we would be willing to share, things we have learned about Faud’s itinerary.”

Chace looked a question at Crocker. “It’s certainly very interesting, sir.”

Crocker thought for a moment, then reached for the intercom on his desk, bore down on one of the keys as he got to his feet.

“Escort, please,” he told the intercom, and then asked Landau, “How long will you be in town?”

“Only until tomorrow night,” Landau answered. “I’m staying at the Vicarage Hotel, under the name Simon, if you wish to speak further.”

“I can’t guarantee an answer for you before you head back to Tel Aviv.”

Landau shrugged again, as if Crocker had stated the obvious. “Time is pressing, Mr. Crocker. Delays will cost us the opportunity.”

There was a rustle from the doorway behind Chace, and the discreet clearing of a throat as the escort announced his presence.

“This gentleman will escort you out,” Crocker said.

Landau rose, extending his hand to Crocker, and Chace got to her feet as well, to maintain respect. He offered her his hand next, and his grip was firm, the handshake brief.

“We’ll do everything we can to move quickly,” Crocker said. “Thank you for coming.”

They waited until they heard the door to the outer office close, then took their seats again. Crocker brought a cigarette to life, then arched an eyebrow as he watched Chace do the same. Without comment, he slid the ashtray on his desk closer to her.

“He wants us to do both?” Chace asked.

Crocker shook his head. “He’s offering to have one of his people do both, provided we can get him the dates.”

“Why doesn’t he go to the Americans?”

“I’m not sure. The White House has been putting a lot of pressure on the Israelis to play nice, maybe because they still think that peace in the Middle East will lead to the Second Coming of Christ.”

“You scare me when you say things like that, because I know you’re not joking.”

“Not nearly as much as they scare me. There are some very strange ideas coming out of Washington these days. God only knows what they’ve got cooking with the Egyptians.”

Chace frowned. “El-Sayd’s a terrorist, a known one. EIJ is on the list.”

“You know damn well none of that matters in the face of politics. And that’s precisely Landau’s problem at the moment. The Mossad makes inquiries into el-Sayd’s travel, the CIA will know what they’re up to. We make inquiries about Faud, it avoids the problem.”

“How’d he know we were after Faud?”

Crocker cracked a tired smile. “Nothing nefarious. Rayburn put the word out to all the Friends as soon as conops came down that we were looking for him.”

“Well, in that case Faud
definitely
knows we’re after him,” Chace said drily. “You trust Landau to do the job?”

“Are you asking if I think his people can take out both Faud and el-Sayd?”

“Yes.”

“Without question. But he won’t get a chance. If we get the dates, I’m sending you.”

“Not to be contrary, but why not let them have it?”

“Are you saying you don’t want it?”

“Of course that’s not what I’m saying. I’m trying to understand the thinking.”

“Two reasons,” Crocker said. “Unless Rayburn pulls a miracle out of his network, I’ll have to go to Cheng to get the information. Then I’ll have to pass it to Landau. At which point Landau hits both Faud and el-Sayd, and the CIA wonders how it was the Mossad knew where and when to strike. The distance between that question and us is the distance between here and Grosvenor Square. That’s one.

“Two, Faud’s the target, not el-Sayd. El-Sayd is a bonus, and if we pull it off, the Mossad will owe us, and by extension, the Israelis. I can use that, and I’m not about to let the opportunity pass us by.”

Chace took it in, nodded her understanding. “It’s mine?”

“Yes.”

“I thought I was going to have to arm-wrestle Poole for it.”

“It’s Yemen, it’s September, tail end of the holiday season,” Crocker said. “I’ll get on to Mission Planning, but we can place you as an Italian tourist, one of those women who take a danger tour in hopes of being kidnapped by local tribesmen.”

Chace rolled her eyes, not so much at the suggested cover as at the viability of it. Perhaps it was because she already had enough adrenaline in her life, but the thought of paying money for the chance to be abducted in some Arabian Nights scenario held absolutely no appeal for her. It didn’t alter the fact that Crocker was correct, however; European women, and for some reason Italian women in particular, had been making such trips exactly as described. They would be cordially abducted from tourist spots outside of San’a’ by local tribes, then ransomed back to the Yemeni government in exchange for various concessions such as new wells for a village or road repairs. By all reports, the abductees were treated very well by their hosts, who knew a good game when they saw one. Chace had even heard of firms that sold tours with precisely this scenario in mind.